


Until the Stars go Dark

by IKEAwhatyoudidthere



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Assisted Suicide, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Crusades, F/M, France (Country), Heretics, Hogwarts, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Pregnant Hermione Granger, Reincarnation, Scotland, Soulmates, True Love, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-22 10:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22581553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IKEAwhatyoudidthere/pseuds/IKEAwhatyoudidthere
Summary: In medieval France, amid the Albigensian Crusade where heretics, witches and opponents to the Roman Catholic Church are slaughtered on mass, star-crossed lovers pledge to find each other over the lifetimes they must endure until they are reunited.From 1209, France to 1998, Scotland, a tragic love story unfolds. Where war rips two soul bonded lovers apart, will they find each other again?
Relationships: Gregory Goyle/Hermione Granger, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 16
Kudos: 26
Collections: Hermione's Nook RarePair Soulmate Fest





	Until the Stars go Dark

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was written for the ‘Hermione’s Nook’ Valentines Day Fest, where a soul mate trope was allocated to a rare pairing.
> 
> Prompt: ‘Only the soulmates can kill the other’
> 
> A/N: This story begins in 1209 in the Languedoc Region of France during the Albigensian Crusade- a time of religious persecution and mass murders. 
> 
> This story contains triggers of murder/suicide and is an UHEA.
> 
> A big thanks to my support crew of A/B’s: Wildflowerweasley, MsMerlin and Lunamionny
> 
> Beautiful end story cover art by WildflowerWeasley
> 
> (I do not own the HP Universe characters- and they remain, as always, the intellectual property of JK Rowling)
> 
> Theme song: Love Theme (from Romeo & Juliet) by Henrik Janson

Until the Stars Go Dark

  
It’s always the same. 

The same half remembered face, the same sense of loss, the same feeling of desperation and pain that makes these dreams seem so very real. 

Her cheek is damp. 

Crying.

Had she yelled out this time? Had she remembered to silence her bed? Hermione struggles to grasp her fleeting thoughts, as she tries to anchor herself to what she knows is the present moment. These dreams always leave her feeling as if she is untethered somehow, as if her spirit is adrift like a dingy in a raging sea. Desolate and without hope. Like she could easily lose herself, to give in and let go, and find him again. 

But she doesn’t.

Just like the hundreds of other times she has felt like this. Lost and incomplete.

She takes a deep breath in and holds it. Grounding. Imagines electric-blue confetti rain coming down upon her, soaking into her skin. Imagines white-hot roots coming from her body and racing down through the stone floors of Hogwarts. Down and down until they find soil, then rock, and down still through caverns of still water. Down her roots travel, until she finds the molten core of the Earth, brilliant and pulsing, and then the roots plug in, anchoring her to the now. The roots drink in the white-hot light, greedily sucking it up, up, up, until it finds her and then she breathes out. Grounded in the now. Another tear slips from her eye. Grounded in the now and so far from him.

Him. Whoever ‘him’ was. She doesn’t know because she can never remember his face, but she did know him. 

She knows what he is: Twin Flame. Soul Bond. 

All her research points to the same conclusion, no matter what perspective she searches from. The incessant dreams, so real they feel like forgotten memories; the feeling of utter devastation and loss when she awakes. Research suggests that they are in fact repressed memories, but Hermione is still in doubt about this – because that would suggest that each person, or at least herself, has lived before. And if the pain she is feeling now means that she has loved like this before, she doesn’t know if she wants to remember it. 

But of course, she does. She has no choice. And each night she prays she will see his face.

_Reincarnation is the philosophical or religious concept that the non-physical essence of a living being starts a new life in a different physical form or body after biological death. It is also called rebirth or transmigration._

She admits that transmigration does sound particularly magical, has especially thought this since starting at Hogwarts. Magic is everywhere if you know where to look.

Over the years, her research has led her to study religions such as Jainism, Buddhism, Sikhism and Hinduism, and she was enthralled with what she discovered. Reading works from the scholars of antiquity – Pythagoras, Socrates, and Plato – and their theories of rebirth and metempsychosis cemented the cemented the credibility of transmigration further. Studying oral legends of the First People of America, Australia and Britannia and then falling down the rabbit hole of New Age spiritualism, had left the rational part of her brain spitting ‘poppycock!’ and “delusional fairy tales' at her. But then again, before she had received her own Hogwarts letter, hadn’t she thought of magic in the same way?

Breath in. Hold. Breath out. 

In. Hold. Out. 

Hermione’s left fist unclenches stiffly, like her knuckles have rusted, and she realises her arm is numb from holding her muscles tight and taught for so long. 

And her jaw. It aches when she releases it. The blessed relief of the lactic acid moving makes her forget to hold her breath, and when she realises, she loses her connection to the ground.

Too soon. She has not fully grounded herself.

_“Listen to me. Listen!”_

She hears a voice that she loves but can’t place. Is it a murmur in her mind or is he beside her? She dare not open her eyes. Just one more minute with him. 

She whimpers. She can feel his hurried whispers next to her ear. 

“ _They'll—you need to leave. They’re coming and the battle is lost. We’re surrounded.”_

_“No. I won’t leave you. Not again. You can’t make me go.”_

It is like she is watching a favourite film when blind-- a spectator, living through sound alone.

She knows this voice, she hears her own words, hears them in the darkness around her, aware she is talking but not now, not in this lifetime. 

_“You need to leave, be safe. If they find you here—”_

_“They’ll kill you too. Come with me. Please. We can leave this place together, no one will know, we can start again, where no one knows us. Please…”._ The words are frantic pleas, but deep inside she knows he won’t leave, won’t desert the castle. She can feel the dread pooling like a freezing lake in her middle, chilling her from the inside. Realisation.

_“I can’t. I am bound here. Until...the end.” He is crying, she can hear his words trip. “You can still go, there’s still time. Take the hidden passage behind the Eurydice tapestry, it will take you under the foundations, out to the old Abbey cloisters. Please, you need to go, there’s no more time.”_

And then she feels hands on her, large hands calloused from his sword hilt, feels herself lifted by arms thickened with years of combat and training. He is grasping her so tightly it is hurting her but she doesn’t care and she knows she wants to stay like this for all of her remaining days. And then he releases her. She feels hands brush her belly and a gentle kiss on her navel. 

_“I’ll find you. Wherever you are, I will find you. Always.”_

She can’t talk, she can hardly breathe, her tears are hot on her face and her snot is thick and bubbling from her nose. She knows that if she leaves now, she will not see him again. But deep inside she knows she needs to do what he says. If she is captured, it will not be a quick death for her. The icy tentacles within travel higher. 

She feels the tears fall from her face and she hopes that they fall on to his head, protecting him from what will come next, so he will take a part of her with him when she leaves. 

The baby kicks. He feels it and kisses her again.

_“Goodbye mon fils bien-aimé. Papa loves you.”_

And then she feels him rise.

I love you. They say it at the same time. 

He is gone.

Hermione sits bolt upright, fighting for a breath she can’t take, but when it comes, she screams. 

She screams until she vomits. 

  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  
The roar of the fire is like a furious beast; it engulfs the oxygen in the room. Hermione looks over her shoulder, and although she has never been one for flying beyond the most rudimentary requirements, she has never been so grateful to have a broom wedged firmly between her legs. It is almost as if the broom understands their most precarious position, and it flies surely and swiftly, winding between a labyrinthine of tall shelves piled high with things forgotten by the outside world.

She feels the sweat on her face prickle at her eyes, the heat of the growing inferno is intense and the room, once airy and light, feels choked now. Breathing is becoming difficult, and daring to raise one hand from the broom, she pulls the neckband of her top over her nose and mouth in a makeshift mask. She knows that the radiant heat from the fire and the poisonous smoke it is creating will kill them before the flames ever would. The thought of burning to death like the persecuted witches of the past makes her even more determined to escape this hellish room. They have the diadem, and the end is in sight, all they have to do is destroy it and then it is just the snake. Just the one Horcrux after this. Just the one left. They are so close and yet still so far away.

Approaching a mountainous stack of oddly put together furniture and boxes she sees Malfoy’s white hair shining like a beacon amongst the ever growing orange gloom. There is someone next to him- Goyle. Damn it to hell! There had always been something about him that made her uneasy.

Flying closer, she sees Malfoy’s hand miss its grip on the side of a beautifully carved Louis XVI armoire and he slips, his feet scrambling for purchase on the side, his toes catching on the carving. He sees them and screams for help. She can’t hear him over the roar of the fire, and looking over her right shoulder to see where Ron is flying, she sees the terrifying face of the fiendfyre. The fire is alive and it has them in its sight. 

Ron is beside her now- he has seen the fiendfyre too and the colour has drained from his face. His eyes are wide and brows creased with determination. He has masked his face with his top but his eyes are watering from the speed of flying and the smoke. He nods to her, and bends lower, speeding up to reach Harry. Harry is crouched low in his trademark Seeker sprint, and then he is twisting to his left, leaning in like a motorbike rider taking a corner and his hand reaches for Malfoy’s frantically waving arm. He makes it look effortless really, the way he bends, the way his hand finds its target with surety, the way he doesn’t lose any speed as he grips Malfoy’s arm and hoists him up onto his broom. He looks like he’s done this a thousand times, like a chivalrous knight plucking a damsel from the jaws of a dragon.

Ron is next, copying Harry’s move, bending low and to the side and extending his hand to Goyle. Hermione can see the look on Goyle’s face. Right now, he doesn’t look like a Death Eater, he doesn’t look like an enemy-- he looks like a terrified teenager. And that is what he is, she supposes. That is what they all are. Victims of a society that thrives on secrecy and hatred, child soldiers in a war they did not want to be part of.

Goyle extends his hand outwards, his focus is on Ron and then their hands meet but slip quickly away from each other. Ron has missed. Goyle is looking around frantically. He is screaming now. His cloak is lifting high, as if he is flying, but it’s only the updraught caused by the fire. 

Hermione can feel the dry heat on her back, she can feel it in her hair. She can smell the brush of her broom begin to smoulder. 

There is no more time. It is up to her now. 

Copying the moves of the other two, she crouches low, her breasts touching the handle. She leans to the left, gripping the wood with her thighs and leans further still. She circles towards Goyle- Greggory. Her hand outstretched, fingers spread as wide as she can make them, for a more effective surface area for him to grab hold of, she reaches to him. 

His eyes lock onto hers as her outstretched fingers connect with his.

Blackness.

)0(

  
The castle walls are echoing with the clash of swords, battle cries and the screaming of men, women and children. She can smell smoke. Cautiously, she edges to a corner, her heart beating inside her mouth. Her back taught against the cool stone, she closes her eyes to focus, to breath and calm herself. The baby makes it hard to breathe at the best of times, and now with adrenaline and fear spiking in her blood and having to race the hallways, she is feeling lightheaded. Just a moment, she tells herself, to catch her breath and focus. She tries to calm her galloping heart, tries to focus on breathing. 

In. Hold. Out 

She imagines roots extending from her feet and travelling down. The sound of clashing steel comes to her and she opens her eyes. No time. She needs to move now. 

Edging around the corner, she sees the oak door to the solar- and the tapestry within it- at the end of the hallway. The sounds are coming closer – fighting – and she hears his voice. He is giving her time to get to safety, he is giving them the chance to live.

Torn, she wants to help him, to wield anything to fight alongside her love, but she knows it will only distract him. It is now or never. Taking a deep inhale, she runs. 

The inelegant waddle-run is infuriatingly and nightmarishly slow. She can feel the energy of the danger in the air. She is at the solar door, the cold iron in her hand as she pushes at the heavy wood. It opens and she can taste freedom, she can almost smell the damp air of the passageway already. She steps in, wanting to slam the door closed behind her, to protect her and the baby from the horrors of the castle, to protect them both from the heartbreak she knows is outside.

In she creeps, the night sky shining its watery light through the thick leadlight of Persephone, the blue hue lending a calmness, as if she too is about to descend into the underworld. But there is something wrong. The room does, indeed, smell like the passageway, the scent of damp and mouldering far stronger than it should be. The tapestry blows out from the wall as it’s caught in a draught and then, through a small gap, she sees a light behind it. There shouldn’t be light there. No one outside of her immediate family knows about this tunnel. It is a secret that has remained closely guarded by her family for generations-- unless they have been betrayed. She can hear voices in the void, hears a foreign tongue. On the breeze blowing into the room, she smells the bitter scent of man sweat and horses. 

She races to the tapestry. The light is growing stronger and she knows there is no escape now. A small whimper escapes her lips; she knows that if she closes the passageway door, then she will be a prisoner in the solar-- trapped. She takes half a step forward and, reaching for the iron loop, she pulls the door closed with a quiet ‘thwunk’. She bars the door with the heavy oak plank and then looks at it; heavy, hot tears sting her eyes.

She steps out from behind the tapestry.

She stands underneath Persephone.

In the corridors, she can hear the ringing of metal and the yell of curses. It is all too much-- she puts her hands over her ears and slides down the cold wall. She knows it is only a matter of minutes. He is out there. He is protecting the room. He is all that stands between her and them.

The yelling quietens, as if it is moving away from her, and then the door opens. She slinks to the room’s shadows, trying to make herself impossibly small, trying to become invisible. It does not work and, to her relief, it is he that enters. 

He closes the door, slides the iron bolt in place and turns to her in disbelief?

“Why are you still here? Are you hurt?” his voice is breathless.  
  
She sobs. A minute ago, she was certain she would never hear his voice again. She awkwardly tries to stand and stumbles forward- he is there to catch her. Like always.

Kissing him, breathing him in, is all that she can concentrate on. He kisses her back like she is water and he is dying of thirst- desperate.

They break apart.

“I’m alright. Frightened and fat,” - she gestures to her protruding abdomen - “and… we’re trapped. They’re here, on the other side.” She points to the tapestry and hugs into him. 

He groans in pain and flinches, and she feels a sticky wetness on her hands.

“My love! You’re hurt. Where? Tell me!” Her voice is frantic and her hands are racing over him until he suddenly inhales and she steadies her fingers. Turning him to face Persephone she sees the darkness on his tunic, inky black in the pale light. 

She looks at his face and what she sees there almost stills her heart. Resignation.

“I can’t protect you. I fear I am grievously wounded, and we are surrounded.” A strangled gasp escapes from him. His knees go weak and she catches him as he falls, taking his weight and lowering him to the ground gently. Puffing from the effort and his weight, she falls next to him, eyes staring at the floor. 

The door behind the tapestry begins to drum with fists of rage. She can hear the muffled confusion of the invaders. 

The yelling in the hallway has returned. There is no more ringing of steel, just angry curses foreign to her ears.

They are lost.

The hallway door is being attacked by axes now. It will not take long for it to splinter.

She looks at him, and says, “We can fight.” He smiles sadly at her.

“My brave lioness. So Brave. So beautiful. I can't forgive myself for failing you,” and he is reaching up to stroke her cheek, tucking her honeyed curls behind her ear.

“No, no, no…” her voice is a whisper, “you have not failed me. You have given me love and respect and adoration and I will love you throughout all our lives... until the stars go dark.” 

His hand drops and his breathing is heavy. She knows that he does not have much time left.

“My love. My love, listen please. Look at me.” She turns his head so their eyes meet and attempts to smile.

He looks at her and he is trying to return her smile, but a stab of pain contorts his face.

“They will take me -- us-- they will kill you but they will take me. I will not be like the poor souls of Béziers, I will not be debased or abused. My love... Audric… please...” He stares at her, as if he’s memorising her face. She sees his lips are pale. 

“I will not let them take you…” He is crying silent tears as he talks. “I will love you forever, I will find you.” She nods at him “You are my greatest everything, and words can not tell you how much I love you.” She nods again.

She drips tears onto his lips, tastes the saltiness of them.

“I will love you forever. The stars bear witness to this. We will stay family.” He nods, the movement is slow.

The axe has split the door now. Encouraged by the breach, the intensity of the blows increases. 

“Together,”’ she says and he smiles at her. His hand waves at his boot and she knows he wants his dagger. For the last time, she runs her hand down the muscled frame she loves beyond words and finds the ruby studded hilt of his dagger. She smiles at him sadly, to give him strength, as she places it in his hand. From the sleeve of her dress, in the secret sheath on her arm, she pulls out her stilleto. It flashes silver in the moonlight. 

They have talked about this many times. The option they’d always hoped they would never have to take. 

But dying by their own blades, on their own terms, was the consolation they had afforded each other. He had taught her how to kill a man, made her practice the movement.

She brings her knife to her lips and kisses it reverently.

His hand is shaking as he lifts his and does the same.

Holding each other's gaze, the sound of the door splintering is nothing more than a whisper on the wind.

Her breath escapes with a gasp, his with a soft exhale.

When the door is breached, and leather clad boots run to where they lie under Persephone, the ruby hilt under her breast twinkles like a bloody star in the torchlight. 

)O(

A millisecond is all it took for her to see him. After years of him haunting her dreams, hearing his voice but never seeing him, she realises he had been in front of her the whole time, since she was eleven. The cruel irony of fate. All the years wasted on hatred and rivalry, when she could have been with him; they could have run far away from another war, found the peace and solace in each other that had been eluding them for lifetimes.

Gregory Goyle is a hefty and well built young man, and stronger than he looks. Hermione casts a quick Leviosa on him to help him get on to the broom, but she is not as confident on a broom as Harry or Ron, and it sways under the new weight.

She shudders. To have him so close again. Does he know?

“Thank you,” came a raspy whisper in her ear. “I told you I’d always find you.” His hands are around her waist, holding her tightly, and she could just sink into him; she already feels like she could float away. Fiendfyre and horror of war forgotten, this pull is ancient and powerful. And he remembers her.

She turns her head slightly, sees him looking at her and they smile at each other. Souls recognising each other in the reflection of each other’s eyes. Hermione lifts a hand to reach around and touch him- she is aching with the need to feel him with her own hands again- and she does. 

Home.

Her breath escapes with a gasp, his with a soft exhale.

Gregory Goyle and Hermione Granger are looking at each other when the fiendfyre demon spits its fiery tongue at them. 

They do not see the orange glow and they do not feel the pain.

-Fin-


End file.
